


Dancing Queen

by raiyana



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship, Glorfindel loves his sister... except when he really hates her, I blame Adam, In which Glordonna is born, Sibling Bonding, Talent Shows, The Tale of Arthelion and Shopfindel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:54:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: In a small cafe in London, a blonde man is listening to a proposition that fills him with equal parts dread and - dare he say it - delight.Rediscovering an old passion, he is unaware of the eyes watching from the audience.Eyes that know him too well - but not nearly as well as their owner wishes.
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Dancing Queen

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a larger AU surrounding Fine Arts student Ecthelion de la Fontaine & Set Design student Glorfindel Millaray that was dreamed up in collab with the lovely toastedbuckwheat (whom you can find over [on tumblr](www.toastedbuckwheat.tumblr.com)) on whose nostalgia wave I blame this entire fic.  
> [The art that accompanies this fic can be found here](https://toastedbuckwheat.tumblr.com/post/644932701721427968/i-couldnt-stop-thinking-about-this-music-video-i)

“I need you,” Úrimë wheedled. “ _Need_ , Findel.”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” Glorfindel replied seriously. “Possibly even give you a kidney. But not _that_.”

“You butt,” his sister laughed, smacking his arm. “It’ll be fun!”

“ _Fun_ , you say,” Glorfindel drawled, his eyebrows doing their best to climb away from the notion.

“Yes!” Úrimë exclaimed. “Don’t you remember when you were a teen and you’d nick my dancing shoes when you thought no one was home so you could dance like Madonna – I know you knew all the steps – in the living room?”

“I literally never had a chance to turn out straight, did I,” Glorfindel chuckled. “Wait – you _knew_ that?!”

“Not even slightly,” she agreed solemnly. “And of course I did, Findel; you were only ever painfully closeted as a teen, never even approaching straight.”

“I could have passed!” Glorfindel objected. “I had a girlfriend and everything!”

“Mhmm,” she hummed. “And GQ under your bed – did you not wonder why I stopped vacuuming your room?”

“Well, you were a lazy vacuumer and I was happy to get out of ironing,” Glorfindel shrugged, trying not blush at what he’d done with the aid of those GQs. He still had a thing for blokes in nice suits that clearly stemmed from those years.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Úrimë smiled, patting his hand consolingly. “But I know you can do it – I’m not asking much!”

“’Not much’, she says,” Glorfindel repeated, adding air quotes in case her sharp ears missed the heavy sarcasm. “’ _Not much’_? You’re asking me to make a complete twit of myself, _on stage_ … IN A LEOTARD AND HEELS!”

“Well, at least you won’t need a wig,” she replied sensibly, shrugging off the stares of their fellow coffee shop patrons. “And it’s not like you know anyone at the student commons.”

“That… doesn’t make me feel better,” Glorfindel scowled, touching his wild golden mane protectively. Was she suggesting _bleach_ now?

And was he actually _considering_ taking part in the art school talent show like it wasn’t a truly horrendous idea?

The world had to be ending, Glorfindel was sure. Just in case he looked up, but the sky was a perfect lazy blue overhead.

When he looked down once more, his sister was wearing a surprisingly angelic expression for a woman nearly two metres tall and more than capable of wrestling any fool to the ground and keep him there.

Glorfindel tried not to shiver.

That particular look on her never boded well for his peace of mind.

Never.

“You ooooowe meeee,” she sing-songed, the sweet smile melting into a decidedly devilish grin.

“I haaaate yooou,” Glorfindel sing-songed back with a scowl.

“So you’ll do it, then,” Úrimë grinned.

Glorfindel sighed, putting his face in his hands.

“I’ll do Hung Up,” he muttered, taking a fortifying sip of the refreshing smoothie he had ordered what felt like a year ago before he heard why his sister wanted to meet with him on a Wednesday afternoon.

It was annoyingly delicious.

“None of the cone bra outfits!” he added hastily.

“I promise,” she soothed, though that grin remained.

“Pinky-promise,” Glorfindel demanded, holding out his hand.

“Pinky-promise.”

The shoes were his own, now – living in London had some perks when it came to finding dancing heels in men’s sizes – though the pink leotard was Úrimë’s; he’d managed to thrift a pink cardi and she had shortened it and added ties to make it look like the one from the music video.

With his hair curled and pinned, things tucked away that needed to be tucked, and a set of surprisingly realistic breasts that Glorfindel wasn’t sure he wanted to know why his sister had lying around, he was actually starting to look the part.

The shop had been out of fishnet leggings, and Úrimë was still working on the purple sequined belt, but he _did_ sort of look the part. Well, he looked like a bloke who didn’t _want_ to look like Madonna while dressed like Madonna.

_How is this my life?_

“Duilin said he’d help you with the make-up,” his roommate Egalmoth offered quietly, looking up from whatever he was doing with bits of silver wire and pliers. “Did I remember to tell you?”

“Aye,” Glorfindel nodded, trying to remember how to walk properly in this type of heel. “Thanks for asking.”

“No problem,” Egalmoth smiled, turning his full focus back on his work, and Glorfindel thought he’d never loved his roommate more.

Galdor would have made _so many_ jokes by now.

Turning, he looked at himself from behind; the full-length mirror showed him a set of strong-looking legs that would need to be shaved – he had refused Úrimë’s offer of getting her girl friend to wax them – before the show, and an arse he felt quite proud of squeezed into tight pink lycra.

He twirled, bringing his hands up to his chest, elbows out like wings. Keeping his head still for most of the turn just until it was too far, he spun in place a few times.

 _I still remember that, at least_. _No motion sickness for me._

Throwing up on stage _might_ be what Úrimë deserved for dragging him into her show as a replacement for some fortunate soul with a broken leg, but Glorfindel thought it would only add to the humiliation of the whole ordeal.

The movements were simple – he wasn’t going to attempt the breakdancing styles from the official video after all – but each step had to be tight and timed just so, which made the whole routine far less easy to copy.

He needed to practise.

And their small living room was really the only possible space for it.

So Glorfindel spun, shaking his butt in time to the beat, his heels making soft clicks against the wooden floor. The high knee lifts made him wobble a little, but he managed to find the point of balance after only a few fumbles; the careful arrangement of every pillow and soft furnishing the owned around him did not become necessary that night.

Or the next one.

Duilin was heaven-sent, Glorfindel was quite sure, studying himself in the mirror. There was no way he could have even begun to figure out what any of the myriad products that now covered his skin and seemed to change the very structure of his bones were, let alone how to use them to create such a flawless result.

“I made you pretty,” Duilin grinned beside him in the mirror, tugging one expertly curled lock of hair away from Glorfindel’s face and securing it with yet another pin.

“He was already handsome,” Egalmoth opined, looking up from a magazine filled with wiring circuit schematics.

“Well, yes,” Duilin agreed, “but now he’s as close to Madonna as any queen I’ve seen on stage.”

“Hopefully, I won’t fall _off_ the stage,” Glorfindel grumbled, suddenly nervous. He picked at the fishnet tights, surprised by how uncomfortable the weave was and quite pleased that the things ended at his calves instead of covering his feet; walking and dancing on the small squares of thread would be even less fun he thought. How did he always get roped in Úrimë’s mad ideas?

“You’ll do well,” Egalmoth encouraged. “I’ve set you up an excellent lighting.”

“She got to you, too, eh?” Glorfindel chuckled, leaning in to study the effect of blinking slowly in the mirror. Had his eyes always been that shade of blue?

“Your sister _is_ terrifying,” Egalmoth pointed out fairly. “I thought it was safer to give in with grace rather than get dragged into this thing by the roots of my hair.”

“Wise,” Glorfindel agreed. Gesturing to the pink leotard covering most of his body – Duilin had helped him with a better system of disguising his prick which had been even more awkward than expected but did the job it was designed for – he sighed. “Why else would I be wearing _this_ on a bloody Thursday evening.”

“You could make a good drag queen,” Duilin shrugged, cleaning brushes. “Well, if you can dance and lipsynch well, I mean.”

“ _No_ ,” Glorfindel told him. “I’m only doing this as a favour to my sister-”

“Who is bloody _terrifying_ ,” Egalmoth interjected.

Glorfindel pointed at him in the mirror. “Truth.”

Duilin laughed. “Fair,” he chuckled. “Though I somewhat want to meet your sister now.”

Glorfindel shivered, trying not to think what might come of such an unholy union. A fabric witch and a makeup wizard… either they’d create something magical or destroy the world of London theatre, probably.

“T-5, bro!” Úrimë called, rapping her knuckles on the door officiously.

“I’d best go do final light checks.” Putting the textbook in his bag, Egalmoth got to his feet, giving Glorfindel a small clap on the shoulder. “Break a leg,” he said, smiling encouragingly.

It did not make the butterflies in Glorfindel’s stomach settle.

He never liked being the centre of attention like this – he far preferred doing work _behind_ the scenes – but now he was preparing to go out and perform something that had only ever been a silly pastime of his teenage self.

“You’ll be grand!” Duilin enthused, attacking him with another coat of hairspray. “Go wow their socks off!”

Glorfindel steeled himself.

And opened the door of the small backstage room he’d been allotted as though he was pretending to be a famous superstar.

Except that was exactly what he was doing, wasn’t it?

Someone made a low appreciative whistle.

Glorfindel turned around to glare at them only to be met by his sister’s Cheshire cat grin.

“Looking good, Findel,” she said. “You’re on in three, go stand over there – Angrod has your music all queued, I’ve made sure.”

“I still don’t understand why _I_ had to go first,” Glorfindel groused, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling the cropped cardi stretch around his muscles.

“Didn’t want you chickening out on me,” Úrimë breezed, passing by him with a small squeeze that felt more comforting than expected. “And I knew you’d enjoy the rest of the show more if you weren’t fretting over your act.”

Sometimes he really loved his sister.

“Lira’s listed as number 4, so we might be in time for that, at least,” Ecthelion sighed. He really hated being late – Maman never approved of lateness and he shared her knack for punctuality despite Papa’s laid-back attitude to time-keeping.

“It’s not _my_ fault that stupid tube train was delayed and we missed our connection,” Tuor replied grumpily, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ecthelion didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. Tuor spending another 20 minutes on his hair – hoping to impress Idril, presumably – meant they had left far later than Ecthelion had planned, and it only took _one_ hiccup of the subway system to screw a whole journey; if they missed Lira’s performance after swearing by all the gods and deities they could remember – a goodly amount of wine had been consumed that evening – that they would be there to support her, Ecthelion was most assuredly going to blame Tuor.

Even if Idril would probably forgive him for disappointing her friend; she never stayed angry with Tuor for long – Ecthelion was of the firm belief that Tuor’s sweetly innocent blue eyes and the hangdog look his face could display to perfection was to blame, but maybe the guy was just really good in the sheets, too…

He decided not to think about that possibility.

There are some scenarios it’s better not to consider when it comes to women you’ve known since you were 10 and they were 7 with a gaptooth smile and pigtails.

“We can run from the station,” he offered instead, looking down at his leather oxfords with some dismay.

“Betcha I can run faster,” Tuor replied, a cheeky grin on his face.

“I’m not taking that bet, you jock,” Ecthelion sighed, trying not to find Tuor’s grin disarmingly charming.

“Awwww,” Tuor pouted. “No one ever wants to race me.”

“That’s what happens when you’re an _actual athlete in the field of running_ ,” Ecthelion pointed out, chuckling.

“Oh yeah,” Tuor grinned, stretching his wellsculpted leg before him, flexing his foot back and forth a few times. “I suppose it’s a bit of an unfair advantage, really.”

“A bit,” Ecthelion agreed drily. “You don’t see me challenging you to do portraits, for example.”

“I’m far better at being painted than painting,” Tuor nodded happily, running a hand through his so-carefully styled hair. Somehow it still looked effortlessly good.

Some people just had all the luck with their hair.

“We’re here,” Ecthelion said, getting to his feet.

“Time to run!” Tuor chuckled, though he remained at Ecthelion’s brisk walking pace through the light rain outside the station and all the way to the Factory where Lira’s music school’s talent show was being held.

Ecthelion wanted to stop and admire the blend of new architecture and reclaimed industrialisation era brickwork, but Tuor tugged him into the blessedly dry foyer, fumbling in his jacket for the tickets.

“Cuttin’ it fine, eh, lads?” the doorman chuckled. “It’s just about to start – you can use your cell to find your seats but do turn it off afterwards.”

Ecthelion offered him a weak smile.

“Yes, sir!” Tuor exclaimed brightly, and then they were in the darkened music hall, Tuor’s phone lighting a path to their seats among Ecthelion’s muttered excuses and attempts not to step on people’s feet.

“You’re late!” Idril hissed when they sunk into the two empty seats beside her.

“Sorry, love,” Tuor replied, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles like a gallant knight from a story.

Ecthelion shook his head at Tuor’s antics, but Idril seemed to soften, leaving her hand in his as the curtain rose.

The person who entered struck a familiar chord in Ecthelion though he couldn’t quite place where he might know them from. Maybe one of the parties for the music school students he’d been to with Lira?

Whomever they were, Ecthelion had to admire the tight roundness of that backside, as they bent over, removing a bright blue tracksuit as the opening notes of a familiar tune began to play. Ecthelion’s eyes travelled up the muscular legs going on for days wrapped in thin netting, feeling a heady rush of desire. The tight butt perfectly outlined in pink lycra seemed made to be worshipped and the lewd direction of his own thoughts surprised him.

The music started in earnest, the performer moving through basic stretches, golden curls flying around an expertly painted face that Ecthelion would love to draw, exploring the angles and planes hidden by the clever makeup. The dance was joyous, each movement carefully made in a seemingly carefree manner, yet so precise it had to be the result of hours upon hours of practise.

Ecthelion felt an urge to grab for his sketchbook and a pencil, wanting to capture that focused look on ‘Madonna’s’ face on paper for posterity; the intensity in the blue eyes seared itself into his mind, a spark of something he couldn’t quite grasp setting a light in his heart.

 _Beautiful_.

Ecthelion’s fingers itched for charcoal and brushes, his eyes captivated by the creature on stage flowing from one pose to the next like they had been born to it, an easy grace of motion he could only admire; he had not seen it often since leaving Paris, but this person definitely possessed that indefinable quality.

He wondered if he could ask Lira for their number – not that he would be certain to feel brave enough to text them after – or whether the request alone was too sketchy, even if he really only wanted to _draw_ them.

Though he already knew his mind would conjure up more physically intimate scenes for this one.

And then the dancer moved a certain way, or the light changed, or perhaps Ecthelion’s brain just finally bothered to see what was before him.

_Oh god, it’s the guy from my art shop!_

The realisation was swiftly followed by another thought that made Ecthelion shiver in his seat.

_He looks even better than I imagined without that stupid orange apron._

On stage, Glorfindel danced on, the music twirling him around like an experienced lover, and Ecthelion _yearned_.

He didn’t quite want to admit to himself just what he desired; for all he knew Glorfindel was straight – well, maybe not quite, given tonight’s performance – but even if he would ever be interested, how would a bloke like _that_ ever be single for more than five minutes?

Ecthelion sank into his seat, determinedly shoving away his morose thoughts to focus on enjoying the performance, watching Glorfindel’s gold hair – teased and curled to perfection yet entirely unlike him – glow beneath the warmth of the light.

And his arse was even better than Ecthelion had dreamed since that day he’d first seen Glorfindel bent over to pick up some stock from a cardboard box and promptly forgotten why he’d entered the art supplies shop in the first place.

Glorfindel barely heard the applause over the pounding of his own heart, the audience a sea of faces swimming out of focus beyond the bright stage lights.

“Well done, Findel!” Úrimë exclaimed, embracing him in a hard grounding hug that Glorfindel accepted with a flash of gratitude, allowing his sister’s familiar perfume to calm his strung-out mind as he buried his face in her shoulder for a moment or twenty.

Looking up, he caught sight of Egalmoth, a thumbs up all he dared before he escaped the possibility of discovery and returned to his lighting booth.

Glorfindel smiled.

It had been difficult and nerve-wracking, and he really did not enjoy the feel of makeup on his skin, but it had also been exhilarating and fun.

“Glordonna!”

“Galdor, have I ever told you that you’re an utter nightmare?” Glorfindel replied evenly, turning around to face his best friend. “What the…”

“Nice, no?” Galdor grinned, lifting the bottle higher. “I’ve got a friend who tends bar – it seemed like the perfect gift for our very own twinkletoes.”

“An utter nightmare,” Glorfindel laughed, shaking his head. “Come on then. I need to get this stuff off my face, and you need to pour me a glass of whatever is in that _shoe_ to help me forget you’ve seen me in this outfit.”

“It’s _striking_ ,” Galdor nodded, doing his best not to giggle. His arm was strong and warm when it wrapped around Glorfindel’s shoulders. “Pink’s a good colour on you. Maybe we should change the uniform…”

“You arse.”

“You were _good_ , Glordonna,” Galdor replied seriously.

Glorfindel tried not to flush at the praise; Galdor had taken him under his wing when he’d first come to the city, and Glorfindel thought of him as a cross between a third parent and a gay uncle – who also happened to be his boss, which was a good thing more often than it vexed him.

“This rum’s well-earned, for sure.” Galdor glanced over his shoulder. “Also, I don’t think _I_ could have said no to _that_ , either,” he added, nodding at Úrimë who was giving the impression of a seasoned general as she directed performers hither and yon, somehow making the wheels of the machine keep turning.

“If you call me Glordonna again, I will murder you.”

“Might make it hard to sign your pay-check,” Galdor mused. “And my darling Rôg would be upset if this cravat was damaged, it’s proper silk!” Touching the emerald-green fabric at his throat, he grinned at Glorfindel who shook his head.

He did not need to look at Galdor’s lascivious grin to figure out why exactly Rôg liked his husband wearing a fine silk cravat. “Well, then, Cinderella,” Glorfindel shot back, nodding at the ‘bottle’ in Galdor’s arms. “Let’s see if your glass slipper really is magic.” There was no way to stay mad at Galdor for long. Particularly when he was carrying what seemed to be decent booze despite the odd container.

“Magic potion _inside_ , at least,” Galdor laughed. “I might keep it as a display piece for later – you could do something fun with glass etching cream for sure…”

Glorfindel grabbed a couple of plastic cups from the water-cooler, leading the way into the maze of curtained off ‘private’ spaces behind the stage; Duilin had left behind a bottle of micellar water and some cotton pads, and Glorfindel’s normal clothes awaited the removal of the pink lycra.

He could hardly wait.

But maybe the outfit would be buried in the far _far_ back of his closet when he got home.

The shoes were pretty great.

O

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